Don't Fear the Reaper
by face70
Summary: Oh Sam LJ happy birthday Sammy comment fic meme promt: 13 x 11: Breakdown What if Dean didn't make it in time (to save Sam)?


"Hello Sam Winchester."

The slow _drip, drip_ of blood pooled on the gray tile and crawled through cracks.

Sam stared at his corpse and raised a hand to his temple where the bullet went through. Nothing there but cool mist or whatever it was ghosts were made of. He turned away at the sight of a hand-saw, turned away as the sound of steel scraping through meat and bone reached his phantom ears. And he was grateful that the veil of death muffled it all in a crushing fog.

There, behind him, stood the reaper. She was lovely, painfully reminding him of another time – another life. Long blonde hair swept past slim shoulders and kind blue eyes that trained on Sam like he was all that mattered.

And for a reaper, it was true. He was her mission. Her task.

She held out her hand to him, her lips pursing with the choice he knew would be coming. Accept it with grace. Find peace. Or linger and let the madness free.

Her hand fell before he could take it and those kind eyes turned sad. A fine furrow formed between her brows.

"You…" she started. She looked past him, as if there was something looming behind him. Sam turned and didn't see anything.

"There's a claim on you," she finished.

Sam swallowed the lump in his throat – unaware ghosts could even have a lump in their throat.

He looked back at her, caught her gaze and the glimmer of silver that pierced through the sky blue of her eyes.

Cold, like ice.

"Sam," she said again.

Sam felt his skin – did ghosts have skin? – grow tight and dampen with sweat.

"Sam, Sam, Sam," said the reaper. The puppet. "This is pretty anticlimactic, don't you think?"

The world behind the veil burst with moment. A figure barged through the door and the muffled blast of gunfire rumbled like thunder.

Dean Sam's mind supplied. He watched his brother hurry around Sam's now-dead murderer. He watched his brother stop just short and stare, drop his gun and just stare at Sam's body laid out, pallid and blue-lipped with a crown of red streaks in his dark hair.

"Hey, looks like your knight in shining armor finally decided to show," the puppet said, "Big bro should invest in a watch."

Sam turned away from his brother, from the shuddering of his shoulders and the muffled pleas he shouted at Sam's body. He faced the woman and tried for a glare – but he was tired. His fingers hovered at his temple, a phantom pulsing emitting warmth where the shot ran through.

"Why are you here?"

She looked away from Dean, eyes on Sam. "Dead body," she thumbed toward his corpse, "Protocol, right?"

"No," Sam barked, the glare holding this time, "Why are _you_ here?"

They stared at each other until the puppet finally tempted a smile.

"Nostalgia? What can I say, Sam. I'm a romantic. You know that."

"Yeah, well. Looks like you've got no use for me now. I'm not a vessel without a body."

"Oh, Sam," said the devil, "You know that's not true."

Lucifer strolled toward Sam's corpse, ran his fingers through his hair, through his blood. He glanced to Dean, watched how the older brother clung to Sam's body like he could bring him back to life through sheer will.

"He was never yours" Lucifer said to Dean. And the room went dark around Sam, distorted by the veil of death and the fog of damnation.

"I'm here because it's you and me, Sammy. Thick and thin. The two amigos." The devil turned and looked him in the eye. "You stop breathing when I say so. You stop existing when I say so."

"It's kind of late for that," Sam said.

"I've brought you back before."

"In the cage," Sam shot.

"Yeah," the devil agreed, "Funny thing about that. You and me? Same plane of existence? I may be out of the cage, Sam. But when I'm out, you're in."

The first gulp of air was acid, a burn that filled his lungs to bursting. He registered he was tight within the confines of strong, shaking arms. Sam gasped for breath, struggled like a fish out of water and blinked open his eyes in the blinding, harsh light of the room.

White tile and florescent lights burned his retinas until a shadow loomed over him. Wide, red-rimmed green eyes stared down.

"Sammy! Sam? Hey – hey –" Dean crooned, the pleas deafening outside the veil.

Sam looked past him, trembling fingers on his temple where the wound was – no. Where it had been.

Now, just smooth skin and stringy strands of dark hair crinkled with blood.

 _You brought me back._

 _I did_ came the agreement. And he felt two sets of eyes on him. _You're welcome._

Sam looked over where he'd stood –floated?- seconds before. He stared. Stared hard and could almost see the outline. He could almost see the silhouette.

But more than anything, he felt the presence. And it was close.

A hand on his left shoulder, Dean, and a hand on his right.

Nails bit into his right shoulder, the stink and sizzle of burned flesh reaching his nose.

 _Why?_ Sam asked the phantom, ignoring the mark – just one more among many – etching itself into his skin.

 _Because I can_ answered the devil _Because you're special, Sam. Because you're mine._


End file.
